INFLAMMATORY RHETORIC by BV Lawson

I burned my first house down when I was six. It’s one of my earliest memories, watching the flames from across the street–first the garage, then the kitchen, and finally the ugly pig-shaped weather vane. I laughed the entire time it burned. My therapist said it was my way of channeling grief over my father’s death in the fiery car crash when he hit a propane truck.

They were wrong. It was fate that brought fire and me together. The day I was born, a hospital wing caught on fire, and a building where my father worked burned to the ground. The final seal of divine providence came in the form of a meteor shower that blessed the sky with brilliant streaks of fire on my first birthday. I could not ignore these auguries.

After two more houses, a school, and a few cars, I ended up in an institution where everyone was very nice and told me they’d make me well. They lectured me, plied me with drugs, and gave me a good education. When they pronounced me cured, I turned to the only career I felt suited for–a firefighter.

That was where my real education began. I never knew there were so many types of fires you could create with the right combination of ingredients. I was like a young painter at the feet of Leonardo da Vinci.

But the big mystery in my life remained. Why was my art not appreciated? The Bible contained many references to fire. And without the fiery reactor known as the sun, there’d be no life.

Philosophers understood. Marcus Aurelius said it best, “Nothing is evil which is according to nature.” And so, I absorbed the wisdom of Aristotle, the commentaries of Shaw, the fearless visions of Nietzsche. As an adult, I burned no building that contained books–no schools, libraries, or museums.

“He doesn’t mean to be bad,” my mother had pleaded before a parade of social workers. “If you could just give him a chance.” I’d always thought she alone of all God’s creatures understood me. But maybe the effort of understanding was too great because she committed suicide when I was thirteen.

Maybe she also sensed that as a divine implant on a thankless earth, I knew what was wrong with humankind. They’d cut themselves off from their Paleolithic lineage with their technological trinkets. They didn’t understand the cleansing nature of fire like their ancestors–the need for land to be burned in order to live.

I’d been thinking about the plight of humankind a lot. Trapped like rats in a maze of poisoned water and toxic waste. And like rats, crowded so close together, humans were turning on themselves. Great minds had puzzled over that, but no one had solved the problem. This is where the philosophers let me down.

The captain at the fire station considered my obsession with philosophy books odd. “Why do you bother reading those things?” he’d asked. “You think you can solve the world’s problems or something?”

What would the captain think of the sticks of dynamite I now held in my hand? Cool and smooth to the touch, deceptive for so much potential energy. The wires into the timing mechanism didn’t look like a work of art, but it was the canvas that was important–the warehouse at 780 Dexter Avenue I’d painted inside with a prismatic pool of gasoline.

As I finished wiring the detonator and placed the finished bomb in the middle of the warehouse floor, it occurred to me–what if all the ideas from human brains since the dawn of reason were off a few degrees. What if world harmony was simpler than anyone dreamed?

Yes, I could see it, like a nebula in the darkness focused through the lens of a divine telescope. Why hadn’t anyone considered it before?

The breathtaking beauty of it produced a smile that stretched across my face. Here was the pinnacle of philosophical thought, something only I knew. A gift from God.

It was the last thought that would ever cross my mind because I looked at my timer again–I’d set it wrong. I already imagined I was seeing the warehouse and me transfigured into a great, multicolored fireball reaching high into the sky as if to embrace the stars.

BV Lawson has been published in dozens of magazines, is a Derringer Award winner for her short fiction, and is a contributor to the Anthony Award-winning Blood on the Bayou. BV’s Scott Drayco mystery series was named a finalist for the Shamus, Silver Falchion, and Daphne Awards.

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BJ Bourg, Owner/Editor

BJ Bourg has worked in law enforcement for over 25 years, serving as a patrol cop, detective, SWAT operator, sniper leader, and chief investigator for a district attorney's office. In addition to being a firearms instructor and defensive tactics instructor, he's a former professional boxer and a lifelong martial artist. He's the author of JAMES 516, THE SEVENTH TAKING, BUT NOT FORGOTTEN, and HOLLOW CRIB. His short stories and articles have appeared in places such as Woman's World, Boys' Life, Writer's Digest, and Law and Order. He lives in southeast Louisiana with his wife and children.

Brandon Bourg, Editor

Brandon Bourg is a published author, writing both genre and literary short fiction. He is currently in his final year of pursuing a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science, as well as a Bachelor's Degree in English with a concentration in creative writing. He has taken courses on these subjects at institutions such as the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, Southeastern Louisiana University, Queen's University of Belfast, Trinity College, and the University of Edinburgh. He has also spent two years as a "pick-up man" for a funeral home, learning hands-on how death affects human beings. When not working or studying, Brandon trains as an amateur boxer and no-gi grappler with formal training from 10th Planet Jiu-Jitsu San Diego.

BJ’s Books

The Amazon best-selling crime trilogy that follows Louisiana Chief of Police Clint Wolf as he battles alligators, assassins, a murderous archer, and cop killers in his fight for justice.

Fear is the fresh catch of the day and it's served ice cold for one Louisiana sheriff whose men are targeted by a killer sniper.

Abraham will stop at nothing to uncover the mystery behind Joy’s disappearance, but will he get himself and his friends killed in the process?

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Authors are responsible for the content of their stories and BJ Bourg's Flash Bang Mysteries, its editors, creators, or affiliates accept no liability whatsoever for misuse of any kind.